there are no shortcuts poem #15

I have no trouble ridding myself 

of people, 

trash 

or love.

I weep over this shrine 

made of everything I can’t expel. 

I fold ancestors 

in the ripples of the honey I offer, 

drink their water,

suck their hair between my teeth.

These silent rites 

are boiling in my tea.

I sip,

a mended mouth

heals without repair. 

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